


A Well Respected Man

by Sir_Thopas



Series: Corsicon [2]
Category: Transformers, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gambling, Multi, Venereal Disease, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Thopas/pseuds/Sir_Thopas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cybertron was well-known across the galaxy for its decadence. It was a place where Rattrap could forget about anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On the day after Dinobot's death Rattrap begins to see the irony.

Optimus relieves him of duty for the next few solar cycles because the little rat can't seem to stop laughing.

He lies on his berth with the lights out and thinks about how the wrong mech died. Isn't it just hilarious that after everything he was the one still alive and Dinobot was dead? Rattrap thinks so. It should have been the other way around. Rattrap had been preparing for his death since before they had even left Cybertron. It had been a long time coming, after all. Dinobot was a warrior. He was built for battle. If anyone was going to survive this it should have been him.

Rattrap thinks about all of the second chances he's been given and wonders if he's really so lucky. Despite all of his complaining Rattrap thinks it might not be so bad to die. Isn't that strange? He's always been so dead set against it before. Pardon the pun, Rattrap thinks wryly. Dinobot always hated his puns.

In truth, he's tired of being who he is. He wishes he really was Rattrap. Optimus, Silverbolt, Cheetor… Dinobot… they all assumed he was the guy he made himself out to be: obstinate, blunt, annoying, but a good guy, right? He wishes he could be that good. Really though there's nowhere to go on this stinkin' planet to be bad. No high-octane, no gambling, no femmes with loose morals who weren't also trying to kill him… what else is a bot supposed to do?

Rattrap thinks about his old life, back when he was called Packer.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hot, heavy air clung to Packer's superstructure, making him feel weighed down. His intakes were working overtime in an effort to keep his internals cool in the oppressive heat. He hated Corsicon with passion. The wet, still air made him feel sticky and uncomfortable, like he was going to start rusting any click now. Still he followed his commander deeper and deeper into the jungle interior. They had a mission. They had to eliminate the Predacon threat. It was time to end this rebellion once and for all.

The platoon stepped into the clearing and at once Packer was assaulted with the metallic smell of rust that emanated from the rotting Predacon corpses that littered the field.

Packer woke from recharge and groggily pulled himself off of his berth. Groaning in pain as the light from Cybertron's adopted sun stabbed his optics he stumbled his way through his home unit trying to find the door that led him to the outside. He briefly wished that Cybertron had remained a wandering planet. At least then it would always be night.

Packer left his unit, rubbing his optics and deliberating on what he should do now. He knew he only had a few credits left in his account, barely enough to buy him a drink let alone to live off of. He'd already gambled away most of his government pension that he had received for that lunar cycle and spent the rest of it on high-octane; he wouldn't be paid again for the next five solar-cycles. Packer supposed he could save the rest and maybe actually get a job for once. Or he could gamble it all and pray that he won enough to last him.

His pedes moved through the streets on their own. They knew where he wanted to go. Packer focused his optics in front of him and found himself seated at the virtual card table. Pfft, like he would ever bother getting a job when he could just live off the government. As he pulled up his cards Packer took a moment to look around at the gambling hall. He'd been coming there for megacycles. The place was a total dive and only the most desperate-looking bots showed up in the early afternoon. Packer figured that he probably fit right in then. With a smirk he looked down at the hand he'd been dealt. His cards were terrible. That was okay though; Packer always made his own luck.

The small rat-faced mech wondered how many times he could get away with counting cards before the owner discovered his trick and threw him out.

By the time Packer left his subspace compartment was just a little bit heavier with the credits he'd won. It'd been a good day. "Watch it, Pred!" Packer snapped when a large Predacon bumped him on the street. "Go back to whatever colony ya crawled out of!" The Pred made a move to strike him but Packer was already gone. The small bot snorted to himself. As far as he was concerned the Maximal Elders had made a mistake in allowing the Preds to come back to Cybertron. Everyone knew that they were all liars who would kill a bot so much as look at them. They had already openly rebelled once before, led by Headstrong and Razorclaw and all those other old Decepticons; it was obvious that they couldn't be trusted to obey the Pax Cybertronia.

"Hey, Packer!" A bright yellow femme waved to him from across the street, perched on a railing and sipping an energon cube. Packer grinned as he sauntered up to Siren, leaning in close to her round, beautiful structure. He had always liked the femmes. He liked their curved bodies and high voices and delicate features. Maybe he liked them so much because there weren't a whole lot of them, being a rare mold for structures and what not, or perhaps it was because he didn't have to crane his neck (usually) to look into their optics. Whatever it was, Packer loved femmes. They had a way about them that made him feel important.

"What are you doing?" She asked. Packer grinned and helped her down from the railing. They'd been friends – and more – for megacycles. He knew her like the back of his servo. Siren was one of those femmes that was always up for something.

"Actually, I'm headin' towards the Ring. I got some credits ridin' on this one. Ya wanna come?"

"Of course!" She exclaimed, linking her servo with his. "This bot you've got money riding on? Is it that retired cop, Backlash?"

"Who else am I gonna bet for? The Pred he's fightin'?" Packer scoffed.

"I heard he hasn't lost a fight yet," she commented.

Packer didn't bother to answer; he just led her away into the city as night began to fall. They entered a slightly rundown, nondescript building and moved past the sleazy bar that it posed as through a back door. Everyone knew about the back door. That was where Cybertron's illegal prize fights took place. Officially, prize fighting was against the law unless sanctioned by the Games & Recreation Division, but cops tended to look the other way so long as they got their cut. Packer and Siren arrived just as the fighters entered the concrete ring, their weapons already drawn. The Pred was certainly tall and fierce-looking, although Packer thought his buddy Titan could definitely give him a run for his credits. Despite his ferocious looks, the Pred had only a sword to his name while Backlash gripped a blaster in one servo. Packer laughed out loud at that. Who brought a knife to a gunfight? It was guaranteed to be the easiest credits that Packer had ever earned.

Packer nearly choked on his glossa when the Pred disarmed his combatant in just a few clicks. Disarmed in a literal sense. The crowd went wild, booing and hissing at the lackluster fight as the Pred merely turned on his heel and walked out. He apparently didn't see the need to play to the crowd. He did his job after all.

Packer angrily tore his tickets to the ground as he stomped out of the Ring. He'd just lost every credit he had in that fight and it hadn't even been a particularly good one.

"Hey, it's okay." Siren soothed, placing a servo on his shoulder. "The Barrel Roll twins are having a get together tonight."

"Those jerks?" Packer angrily fisted his servos. "I can't stand listenin' to them finish each other's sentences. Man, they can't even spend two clicks away from each other. If ya ask me there's somethin' creepy goin' on there."

"I think it's sweet how close they are," Siren gushed. "Besides, there's bound to be free high-octane."

Packer had to concede the argument at that point.

The twins had already started the party long before anyone else had shown up. By the time Packer and Siren arrived at the unit the two were laughing into their high-octane, slurring some joke that no one understood. No one cared though so long as it was an open bar.

Packer and Siren downed bottle after bottle and soon joined in on Barrel and Roll's joke, whatever it was. As the two laughed along Packer couldn't help but notice how bright Siren's large blue optics were and how they seemed to linger on every mech that passed by. A deep-seated jealousy burned low in his synthesizer as he watched her from the corner of his eye. Siren was one of those femmes that never could stay in one place. She roamed the streets of Cybertron going from mech to mech in search of… Packer never really figured out what she was looking for. He didn't really understand what drove her. There wasn't anything that Packer was hoping to get out of life. He was just sort of… alive, he guessed, which was good enough for him. That's all he needed to do: stay alive.

"What was your designation again?" Siren asked a passing mech, teetering on the edge of her seat. Packer grabbed her arm to keep her from falling- or to keep her from going after him, he wasn't sure. Siren turned back to smile at him and leaned in close to his audio. "The twins have a direct access to the roof. Wanna go?" She whispered and Packer nodded, not even bothering to ask her how she knew that.

Siren took him by the servo and led him to the lift. When the door slid open Packer could see the thousands of colored lights that illuminated Cybertron. Everywhere he looked he was bombarded by the flashing colors and the sounds of the bots down below and up above, driving or flying or walking. The lights were so bright they even outshone the stars. It was amazing to think that even the universe could somehow look small and insignificant next to Cybertron. Packer was pulled from his reverie as Siren tugged him along, kissing him as they went.

When Packer awoke in the morning, with one servo thrown over the femme's hip and his glossa feeling sticky and dry, all he could think was: What in the Pit happened?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are wondering, Titan is Rhinox.

Packer untangled himself from the bright yellow femme and stood up, groaning as his joints creaked. His processor thrummed painfully inside his helm, punishing him for all the high-octane he consumed from the night before. For a click Packer stared down at Siren, still curled up on the roof, deep in her recharge cycle. Then he turned around and left, leaving the femme to wake up on her own and alone.

He passed through Barrel and Roll's home unit, their guests still sprawled across the floor and furniture. Those who knew their limit were recharging, those who didn't were in stasis lock. Bottles were littered throughout the entire unit. One was still leaking oil on a table. Barrel - or possibly Roll, it was hard to tell sometimes - was hanging off the back of a chair. He had to watch his step, wobbling as his scrambled processor tried to keep him from pitching forward, to avoid stepping on the unconscious bots that had made themselves comfortable on the hard floor.

The moment he stepped out onto the street and into the harsh mid-morning light he transformed into his motorcycle mode and sped off. He might have been going a little too fast and a little too unsteady, but he managed to avoid any cops and crashed onto his berth the moment he staggered inside his unit.

That smell was back. The smell of rust. It was everywhere. The air was so thick with it Packer could almost taste the heavy, metallic tang on his glossa. Packer followed his platoon into the desolate camp, weaving around the russet-colored structures of the dead Preds that were strewn about the place. He moved past a kid – barely out of his sparkling years, really – who bore large holes in his chassis from where the rust had begun to eat away at the metal. Everyone was dead. There was no one left to fight. Packer was just part of the cleanup crew. A whistle broke the silence. Packer looked up to see his commander gesturing to a hastily-built unit in the middle of the camp. Packer nodded; he understood the command. He needed to check it out. Packer made his way over there, pulling out his blaster as he edged toward the opening. He peered inside to see a row of ancient and broken down CR tanks…

Packer wrenched himself upward as he was roughly awakened by the sound of pounding on his door. "Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'," the small Maximal grumbled as he pulled himself up. He mumbled under his intake as he shuffled towards the door; it was probably just the landlord coming to shake him down for the rent. The mech was in for a disappointment. Whatever, Packer thought to himself. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd come up short. Packer had gambled and drank his pension away so many times his landlord would probably die of a valve-attack if he actually showed up with the rent on time and in full. And we wouldn't want him to keel over and expire, now do we? Packer thought sarcastically. So, really, me being broke is just the best thing for all of us.

Packer punched in the code and stood back to allow the door to slide open, ready for the screaming match to start. His jaw dropped to the floor as a large green mech stepped inside. He hadn't been expecting this. "Titan…" Packer gasped, taking in the sight of his old friend. "What in the Pit are ya doin' here?" They hadn't seen each other in megacycles. Not since…

"I came here to make sure you weren't dead," he stated in that deep, rumbling voice of his. The larger mech narrowed his optics at the small bot in front of him, a deep frown marring his face. "The Maximal Elders have been trying to contact you for three solar cycles now."

"Heh, oh really?" Packer asked, throwing his arms up to stretch. So, not a social call then. Titan wanted to talk business. Business that Packer had no intention of ever getting into again. "Where's my credits then?"

"They already paid you this lunar cycle," Titan replied. His tone left no room for arguments. Packer shrugged nonchalantly and threw himself back onto his berth.

"I'd offer ya a chair, but I sold most of my furniture a couple of lunar cycles ago," Packer said as he lounged back, sweeping his servo across his bare and empty unit for Titan to take in. "So, what's up? What do the old slaggers want now? A little political assassination? Maybe a good ol' fashioned ethnic cleansin', eh?" Packer grinned up at the stoic mech in front of him. "Oh, come on, what's the matter? It's not like the job can be any worse than the last assignment we were on."

Packer watched as Titan's red optics flicker at the mere mention of their last mission. It had been hard for Titan. He had always deeply valued the life of any spark. He was a medic, after all, a sparkstetrician to be exact. It was Titan who welcomed brand new sparks into the world; he gave them life. Packer hadn't been bothered by what they had done; why should he? They were just Preds. He was fine. He was always fine. He just needed to forget and forgetting was only too easy with a bottle of high-octane and a femme in his arms.

Titan grimaced but nodded his head. "Officially, it's an exploratory mission."

Packer winked. "Officially, eh?"

Titan sighed and glanced around the unit. "Look, we can't talk about this here. Why don't we go someplace that's a bit safer?"

Packer laughed and shook his head. "Nope. I'm outta that game. No matter what they offer me, I'm out. Done. I thought you were too."

"This is important," Titan replied with another sigh. He leaned against the wall and surveyed Packer. "You look like the Pit. Have you been eating enough? Recharging enough? And no, a bottle of high-octane does not count as a meal."

"Is this your opinion as a doc, doc?" Packer asked. "Look, I'm fine. I'm just doing what I always do."

Titan gave him a rueful smile. "Yeah, that's what worries me." Then, more seriously, "You really should get checked out, though. You're not looking too good."

Now he was starting to get annoyed. "Hey, I don't need to get checked out." Packer snapped. "I told ya I'm fine."

"Sure, you are. You won't mind if I just give your progenitor a call, do you? I can tell him exactly how fine you are. Better yet, I could always contact your Great Aunt Arcee. I'm sure she'd love to know what her great-nephew's been up to." Packer narrowed his eyes at the smirk Titan shot him. He knew how to fight dirty. A useful thing to know if he wanted to survive being friends with Packer.

"Okay, fine, I'll get checked out," Packer grumbled.

Titan beamed. "Great. I know a good diagnostician near here."

Titan ended up dragging him to some fancy office in one of the wealthiest boroughs of the city. The sterile walls nearly sparkled they were so clean. Packer had never felt so out of place in his life. He was just some dumb hick from a small colony in the Vespa System. He and Titan had grown up in the same mining town; everyone had expected Titan to follow in his progenitor's footsteps and go down into the energon mines. With a build like his, what else would he have been? As for Packer, well, he was the great-nephew of Arcee, a famous hero of the Great War. They all thought he was going to be just like her: brave, strong, a soldier, and their town's newest hero. So he joined the army; they both did. Titan became a field medic and Packer turned out to be an excellent marksman and saboteur. Now look at them. Titan was an accomplished and respected sparkstetrician and Packer… was just Packer.

Wasn't that life?

"So, doc, what are the results?" Packer asked as the tall, lean diagnostician entered the room once more. For a moment the medic didn't say anything. He just continued to stare down at the electronic pad in his servo, looking over the results. Finally he looked up.

Packer felt his coolant drop. He could tell by the other mech's face that it wasn't good news.

"I'm sorry, but…" The diagnostician took a deep intake. "I'm afraid you've contracted the Creeper virus. There's very little we can do at this point. It's invaded your whole system."

"What?" Packer asked. He couldn't comprehend what the doctor was saying to him. "How could I have the Creep? My onboard computer would have told me if I got a virus!"

The doctor shook his head. "Not this one. Not the Creeper. It's too well hidden. I'm sorry."

Packer felt his structure begin to overheat as his valve pumped wildly in his chest. Calm down, deep intake, Packer thought to himself. "What's going to happen now?" He asked. Was that his voice? It sounded so small and weak. It sounded nothing like him.

"The virus is ultimately fatal," the doctor said, his voice apologetic. "But you can still lead a happy, normal life. You still have at least 10 good megacycles left before the virus begins to shut down your systems."

"Ten megacycles?" Packer hissed. "Cybertronians are supposed to last for centuries!"

The doctor's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "I-I'm sorry," he stuttered out, but Packer didn't wait around to hear it. He stormed out of the room and through the lobby, ignoring Titan's startled yell. He needed to get out of there. He needed to be free.

He needed to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

Rattrap remains motionless on his berth despite the fact that he can feel his joints stiffening from lying there for cycles on end. He just listens to the sound of Dinobot's voice.

"… Is this all that I am? Has everything that I've done been for nothing? Where is the honor in this – in being here – with you? I used to hate you. I used to think everything you said was nothing more than the typical Maximal lies that spews from the mouths of so many of your kind. But you not only believed it, you lived it. I wish I could go back to the way I was. Everything was much simpler then. I don't know who I am anymore and it is your fault! I am tired of this confusion. There is only one road that is left to me, one path that I know will not lead me astray. I can choose it, safe in the knowledge that it is my choice, not any-"

"Computer, stop datatrack." Rattrap commands. He can hear the echoing clank of metal pedes down a metal hallway.

Suddenly Optimus is there in the doorway standing before him. There is a weary, beseeching look in his optics hidden underneath that façade of strength and Rattrap knows he heard Dinobot's voice coming from his quarters. But Rattrap tells him nothing. This is one secret that he is keeping to himself. It's the kindest thing that he can do for his leader.

He should have never stolen the datatracks. Dinobot had left them for Optimus, but when had Rattrap ever cared about respecting the personal property of others? He's glad he took them though. It would have killed Optimus to hear Dinobot speak of suicide and see the memories he had downloaded about his life as a Predacon soldier.

"If you need to talk…" Optimus began.

Rattrap just laughs and folds his arms behind his helm as he stares up at the ceiling. "What ever happened to 'Shut up, Rattrap'?"

Optimus shakes his head and sighs. Rattrap hears the door slid shut and the shuffling of pedes moving down the hall.

"Computer, restart datatrack." Rattrap shuts off his optics and lets Dinobot's voice wash over him. This is a Dinobot he never knew: confused, beaten, doubting. Where is that slagging saurian that he had grown to like and respect? The defiant Predacon is nowhere to be found in these musing words that echo through Rattrap's unit. He misses that Dinobot.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Packer tried to lift his helm off of the bar, but it was too heavy. Oh, well, Packer mused. He'll just have to figure out a way to drink his high-octane with his face planted against the counter.

"There you are."

Packer felt a large servo grasp his shoulder and heave him into a sitting position. With his face suddenly free Packer lifted his bottle to finish off what was left of his drink only to miss his mouth completely. Packer heard the splashing against the floor and groaned in dismay.

"I think you've had enough." The bottle was suddenly wrenched from Packer's servo as his vision was filled to the edges with green metal.

"Heeey," Packer greeted as Titan sat next to him at the bar. "Ya want somethin'? I've got a tab."

Packer lifted his servo to call the bartender over but Titan forced his arm back down. "Packer, we need to talk."

Packer rolled his optics. He knew that tone. "Yeah, well, you talk. I'm gonna drink."

The small bot let out a sudden squawk as he was forcibly hauled off of his chair and out into the bright sunlight by a pair of large servos. "What's the big idea?" Packer demanded. "Let go!" Titan did as he commanded and let the Maximal drop onto the pavement. With a muttered expletive Packer stood up to face the towering mech. He was about to give him a piece of his mind when Titan cut him off.

"I talked to the diagnostician after you left. I know you have the Creeper virus."

For a moment Packer just stood there, his mouth moving, but no sounds coming out. "Heh," he finally huffed out, a sardonic smile marring his face. "Ya don't sound very surprised by the results. I guess it was only a matter of time before I came to a sticky end."

Packer jumped back in fright as Titan let out a sudden yell of frustration. "This isn't some joke, Packer!" He raged. "You can't keep drinking and gambling your problems away or you won't even live long enough for the Creep to shut you down! Did it ever occur to you that what you're doing hurts me too? There's a reason why I never come around to see you anymore! I can't just stand around and watch you kill yourself! What about your progenitor, huh? Do you ever even think about him anymore?"

Titan took a deep, calming intake before continuing, "I know this isn't how you thought your life would turn out, but there's still time to make a change."

Packer couldn't say anything. He was too shocked by Titan's sudden outburst. He wouldn't even know what to say if he could speak.

Titan sighed at Packer's lack of response. "I'll be on planet for the next couple of cycles. You know how to contact me if… you know how to contact me." With that the large green mech turned around and shuffled down the sidewalk, leaving Packer standing there in his wake.

Packer started his long trek home, lost in thought. He didn't know what he was going to do. It had been so easy to come to Cybertron after the mission on Corsicon and live it up in the planet's dark, seedy underbelly. Everything was just so easy on Cybertron. All the lights and parties and femmes… it was easy to get lost in it. It was a place where a Maximal was a Maximal and a Predacon was a Predacon. Black and white. Everything in its place.

Packer sighed. He knew he couldn't continue living like this. Not anymore.

A high-pitched giggle tore Packer from his thoughts. He looked up to see Siren standing just a few yards away. He watched her smile and laugh as she trailed one servo, soft and delicate, up the arm of some burly mech. Packer felt his coolant drop as he realized just how right Titan was when he said that what he did affected other bots as well. He had to tell her. She had the right to know. Of all the times they had interfaced… she'd be lucky to escape unscathed. "Siren!" He called out. He could feel his whole chassis shake as he approached her.

Siren turned to give him that faraway dreamy smile of hers while the mech beside her scowled fiercely. No doubt he thought he was an interloper honing in on his femme. Heh, Packer thought to himself. And here I am probably about to save his life. "Listen," Packer began. "I need to talk to ya. Could we maybe go over here for a little bit?" Packer took her gently by the arm and led her down a small alley, away from the mech and the passerby on the streets.

"What's wrong?" She asked with that stupid, confused look on her face. He hated that look. Her childish demeanor had always grated him. It made it so hard for him to tell her about virus with her looking at him like that.

"I…" Packer took a deep intake. "Ya need to run a diagnosis on yer systems. I… I just got back from the diagnostician and… and I'm sick. I got the Creep, Siren."

Siren just stared at him for a moment with that same dopey expression on her face. Then she slowly smiled and Packer seriously began to wonder if she was capable of understanding complex sentences. "Don't worry," she said soothingly. "I don't need to go to a medic. I'm fine."

"Did ya hear what I just told ya?" Packer demanded, getting thoroughly irritated. "I told ya I have the Creep! You've probably got it too!"

"Oh, I've had it for megacycles," She replied cheerfully, waving her servo in the air as though what she had just said wasn't of any importance.

Packer felt like his entire processor just crashed. "What?" He asked. His audios were malfunctioning, he knew they were. She had not just told him that she had infected him. That was impossible. Funny, pretty, stupid Siren was just not capable of doing something like that.

"About two megacycles ago I was told that the Creep had so thoroughly infected my systems that I probably only had a few lunar cycles left," she answered. "But here I am! Personally, I think this virus has been completely blown out of proportion. I mean, look at me! I don't feel sick at all. I'm sure you'll be fine too."

Packer had pulled back his fist and punched her across the face before he even realized what he was doing. Siren fell back onto the ground with a girly shriek, clutching her face and looking at him like he was the monster. Packer shook with fury as stared down into the femme's large optics. "You!" He hissed. "You gave me the Creep! You idiot! Don't ya realize what you've just done? You've killed me! You've killed every bot who's ever interfaced with ya!"

Packer's servos clenched by his sides and all he wanted was to give her another good smack, rage against her, scream, shake her shoulders until she understood just what exactly she had done. Siren stared up at him with that same dumb expression, unable to say anything. She would never understand. With a frustrated yell Packer turned around and stormed off. He needed to get away from her before he did something he would regret.

Packer stomped through the dense city that covered the entire planet, a dark storm cloud hanging above his head. He wanted to leave this place. What was once a haven had turned into a prison. It felt like Cybertron was eating him alive. He wanted to just go and keep on going, never looking back. Eventually his aching pedes came to a stop. Looking up, Packer saw that he was standing in front of the hotel that Titan was staying in. Exploratory mission, huh? Packer thought derisively as he stepped inside.


	4. Chapter 4

Packer took a swig of his high-octane as he eyed the silver and gray mech seated in front of him. The bot had this sort of optimistic outlook on life that grated his circuits. He was so naïve, so green. This was the mech the Maximal Elders put in charge? Packer knew that eventually the mech would come face to face with a hard decision, the same decision that Packer had once faced all those megacycles ago. He would either have to do the right thing and abandon his morals or deliberately lose the battle just so he could continue to look at himself in the morning. Packer doubted he would be able to make that sort of decision. This kid was no commander. Packer could tell he was uncomfortable with the job just by the way he ducked his head as though he was embarrassed when he said his name: Optimus Prime. This guy was a descendant of the Optimus Prime; shared his name, his rank, everything. Packer sighed at the predicament he found himself in. Even if his new commander was all shiny and hopeful, his name and title have got to count for something, right?

"So, whaddya do when yer not coverin' up the Elders' dirty little secrets?"

The mech actually winced at that. He was ashamed of what he was doing. Packer rolled his optics at Optimus's embarrassment. If he was going to survive he would need to let go of that shame and fast. "Well, really, I'm just a botanist – that is I study organic plant life for a living. This is my first time undertaking a mission of this, erm, nature."

Packer just stared at him. This guy was a scientist? He was going to get them all killed, he just knew it.

Optimus looked nervously between Packer and Titan. "Are you sure this place is secure?" He asked. "This isn't something we should be discussing in an unsecured area. The police have been cracking down on the Predacons lately and I know there are Predacons living in this building. They could have bugged this unit."

"It's clean," Titan replied. "I made sure of it."

Optimus turned to the larger mech in surprise. "I didn't know you were skilled in tech. I thought you were just a medic."

Packer laughed darkly and whacked Titan on the chassis, ignoring the other mech's irritating glare. "Oh, Big Green picked up all sorts of stuff during the Rebellion, didn'tcha?"

Optimus shook his head in wonderment. "All these megacycles that I've known you and I never knew you fought against the Rebellion. I thought the Maximal Elders simply chose you because of your skills as a medic."

"Yeah, well, I don't care to talk about it," Titan grumbled, giving Packer a significant look. It was a look that clearly told Packer he better keep his trap shut or else.

Packer shrugged, not really caring. "So, uh, you wanna tell me what this mission is exactly?"

"We're transporting a dangerous criminal to an uninhabited planet," Optimus replied.

"Yeah and…?"

"Then we leave him there."

Packer shook his head. He didn't understand it. If they were just executing some criminal's punishment then why all the secrecy? "I know there's more to it than that," Packer insisted. "What'd this guy do? Beat up little old femmes?"

Optimus frowned but answered, "Do you remember hearing about Colony Omicron?"

Packer pushed himself away from the table, his jaw dropping open. "No way, that bot? That bot that slaughtered an entire colony? Uh uh! There's no way I'm doin' this! They say he's like invincible!"

"He is invincible," Titan stated severely. "He was an experimental protoform. The Maximal Elders conducted secret experiments on the sparks of imprisoned Maximals and Predacons in hopes of recreating the Decepticon Starscream's immortal spark."

"And they succeeded," Optimus informed. "Only he was completely insane and depraved. After his attack on the colony the Maximal Elders were able to put him into stasis. It's our job to make sure he can never hurt another being again."

"Yeah, well, you let me know how that goes," Packer snidely replied as he got up to leave. He should have never come here. He should have gone back to his place, spent every last credit he had on high-octane, and drank himself into stasis lock.

Titan roughly grabbed him by the arm and forced back down in the seat. "Sit down. You knew this mission wasn't going to be easy when you came here."

"Yeah, and I knew it was a mistake too!" Packer snapped back.

"What else are you going to do?" Titan demanded. "Drink yourself into an early shutdown?"

"Slag you! I'm dying!"

"You're not dying yet," Titan ground out. Then, sucking in a deep intake, he said more calmly, "I know what happened on Corsicon deeply affected you-"

"Whoa," Packer threw up his servos. "You've got yer wires crossed. Corsicon didn't do nothin' to me. We were the good guys, remember?"

"I never said we weren't." There was a look in Titan's optics that Packer didn't like. It was like he could see into his very spark.

For a moment they were all quiet, unsure of what to say. Then, hesitantly, Optimus cleared his vocalizer, "Titan has informed me of your current… condition." He ignored the indignant squawk of the smaller bot and continued on. "And I know that you were a part of the special forces that invaded Corsicon. I can't know what you experienced there; no one could except those who lived through it, but I would be deeply honored if you joined our crew." With that Optimus stood from the table and, with one last glance over his shoulder, walked out.

"Doing this… this is a good thing, Packer," Titan stated gently. "We can't let this deranged bot continue to function. Doing this… we'll be saving millions of lives. And, maybe, you'll finally start to heal. You don't have much time left; you need to let go."

Packer could hear Titan speak, but he couldn't process what the other bot was saying. His thoughts were already a million miles away.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Predacons were a bunch of lousy, back-stabbing, dirty murderers as far Packer was concerned.

But what else could a bot expect when the whole race descended from a group of Decepticons notorious for their bloodlust? Even after the Decepticons were defeated and signed the Pax Cybertronia, the original Predacon – Razorclaw – refused to submit. He claimed that the treaty reduced the Decepticons – and later, his descendants, the Predacons - to slaves and beggars, which was total slag in Packer's opinion. The Decepticons and Predacons had never had so much freedom then when they lived under Autobot and Maximal rule. Every bot knew what went on in the Predacon colonies. They lived a brutal and savage life. Sparklings were taken from their progenitors almost as soon as they were sparked, forced to live in barracks where they were turned into hardened killers with no sense of self or identity. Their mere existence was to slavishly serve Razorclaw and his generals. If a sparkling couldn't cut it then they killed it. Simple as that. Packer shook his head; and this was how the Preds wanted to live? They were insane, the whole lot of them.

Packer had seen firsthand Predacon sparklings charge into the battlefield, launch themselves at the enemy, and tear their circuits right out of their torsos. They had no emotion, no remorse. Packer sometimes wondered if they could truly be considered Cybertronian. Their programming was just so different; they were like some kind of organic animal. Not fit to live.

Razorclaw spent centuries secretly rebuilding the Predacon army. Then the day came when he finally made his move. He attacked his fellow Predacons. At first the Maximals did nothing; the Preds were always fighting each other and nothing the Maximals could do was ever going to stop that. Besides if they killed themselves they wouldn't have to worry about them anymore. Then Razorclaw murdered the Predacon Council, calling them weak-willed Maximal sympathizers, and conquered three Predacon colonies: Gamma, Synthesia, and Corsicon. All three had massive energon deposits and were important to Cybertronian trade; there was no way that the Maximals could allow these colonies to fall into the servos of a psychopath like Razorclaw. Synthesia was the first colony that the Maximals retook and Gamma was the last. Although Packer hadn't thought so at the time, both wars were actually fairly easy and each ended just within a lunar cycle.

Corsicon was a different story altogether.

The Predacons were deeply entrenched in the planet's thick jungles. The Maximals tried for lunar cycles to break their line but they couldn't gain so much as an inch before the Preds pushed them back. Corsicon had all the hallmarkings of another Great War. The Maximals couldn't let it progress that far.

There had only been one option.

Believe it or not, Protoform X was not the first dubious experiment initiated by the Maximal Elders. They were always worried about another Pred uprising, of another Great War. How long could they keep winning? The Preds would never stop – not ever – they would continue fighting until they won or they were wiped out. It was just how they were programmed to be. The Maximal Elders concocted many schemes just in case such a thing happened. Packer supposed that that was the reason behind Protoform X's creation: an immortal soldier that the Elders could unleash onto the Predacons at will. Before Protoform X, however, there was XL3998.

Packer could still remember his debriefing. For the first time since he joined the army he had been separated from Titan. He was one of the soldiers chosen for a special mission to penetrate the Predacon defenses on Corsicon. Packer tried to get out of it, of course. He was an expert at infiltration, but infiltrating a Pred space station or base was not quite the same thing as infiltrating a battlefield. His commander had assured him that there would be no danger. He wasn't there to fight. He was there to clean up. The XL3998, as his commander explained, was a virus designed to affect only Predacon programming. Inspired by the Hate Plague of the Great War, the Maximal Elders took that virus and improved it. They made it so that it latched onto Predacon neural codes only, leaving Maximals immune.

It would also kill an infected bot within a mere couple of cycles. That is if they weren't first killed by their crazed plague-infested comrades.

For solar cycles Packer tripped the decoys and traps that littered the Predacon bases, dragging the mutilated structures of Pred soldiers – the virus pushing them to kill even as they lay dying – to the recycler. There was to be no evidence that the XL3998 had ever existed.

Then Packer came across that hut made of scrap metal, that broken down unit that tried to pass itself off as a medical facility. He stepped inside and saw a row of CR tanks…


	5. Chapter 5

Packer knew it was a bad idea from the start. Protoform X was lost in orbit, a dangerous group of rebel Preds was out to kill them, they were lost on an unknown planet and unable to communicate with Cybertron, their commander had next to zero battle experience, and one of their own was just a slagging kid who had no business being there in the first place.

And Optimus wanted to bring a Pred into their midst on top of all that?

Packer gave them a week before Dinobot slaughtered them all in their sleep. He was planning on triple-locking his unit from now on.

Packer swore under his intake as he tried to dig out tufts of fur from his joints. Rattrap. He had to remember his new designation. He liked it; new name for a new body and a new life. The fur could be a right pain in the aft, though. It was always snagging during transformation. Rattrap swore again as the strands tore, leaving the shorter pieces still lodged inside his joints.

"Must you… play with yourself… in the middle of the command room?"

Rattrap felt the fur on his plating stand on end at the sound of Dinobot's rough growl. The velociraptor sneered at the smaller Maximal's futile attempts to clean out his joints as he passed him on his way to speak with Optimus. He supposed the Pred didn't have the same problem with those scales of his. Rattrap grinned maliciously at the other mech – he refused to let Dinobot see just how much he unnerved him – "Of course. I know how much ya like the show."

Rattrap gave a yelp as Dinobot's powerful, whipcord tail suddenly crashed into the back of his chair as he walked by, sending the rat tumbling to the floor. Optimus looked up from his computer readings at the sound and glared at the culprits. "What's going on? Do I need to separate you two like a pair of sparklings?"

Rattrap picked himself off and waved off the commander's lecture. "Eh, it's my fault. I hadn't realized just how wide Chopperface is. He can't help but crash into things with an aft that big."

The Maximal leapt back as the Pred snapped his jaws an inch away from his face. Without even thinking Rattrap's servo was on his hip, ready to grab his blaster and put a bullet right between those reptilian eyes.

"Enough!"

Rattrap and Dinobot jumped away from each other as though they had been burned. They turned to their commander, shame-faced but defiant as the large ape regarded them coolly. "I'm putting both of you on monitor duty for the entire day tomorrow. That means there will be no leaving the ship for any reason, barring an attack. Maybe that will teach you two a lesson about cooperation."

Rattrap snorted as he stormed off to his unit, leaving Dinobot to deal with Optimus. Was he the only sane Maximal on this entire planet? No one else seemed to care that there was a Predacon soldier in their base! And that was exactly what he was, no matter what he changed his transformation codes to. Dinobot was a killer. Rattrap knew a murderer when he saw one; there was a certain look in a bot's optics that never faded after he killed for the first time. Dinobot's entire programming was centered on killing; it was what he was built for. He was a Predacon soldier through and through. He was a ticking time bomb. Optimus was a fool if he thought he could control him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Packer found himself in the jungle. He knew this dream. He hated it. Sometimes he dreaded shutting down at night. He knew he couldn't wake until he finished the dream.

Packer moved across the ground, avoiding the rusting corpses of Pred soldiers. The small metal hut glinted in the low light some distance up ahead. He could hear his commander barking out orders, but it sounded far away like he was under water. In no time at all Packer was standing in front of the hut, peeking inside to see a row of CR tanks. He stepped inside and looked around.

A loud metallic echo reverberated throughout the hut. Packer turned back to see a red hand reach out from the pool of energon to clutch the edge of one of the tanks. Another hand burst out and with a heave the Pred was able to sit up. He leaned against the side, cycling heavily as he struggled weakly in the vat. Packer was frozen stiff as the Pred turned his dimmed optics toward him. He lifted his servo toward him, begging him for help…

Rattrap shook as he suddenly woke. He was Rattrap now. He had to keep remembering that. Packer and Corsicon… that was the past. He was Rattrap.

With a groan Rattrap pulled himself off of his berth. He was exhausted; his energy readings stated that his tank was nearly full and yet for some reason his internals weren't converting the energon into useable energy. The Creep was starting to affect his mechanics. Rattrap supposed it was because of the battles; this mission was supposed to be a front. They were supposed to drop off X, poke around some random planet pretending to "explore", then go home. That's it. How in the Pit was he supposed to survive another war? His body couldn't cope with the stress. Rattrap sighed as he prepared for another day. He couldn't let the others see him like this. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

He needed to rest, which was why he was going spend his day playing virtual poker instead of watching the monitor. Of course, he would have done that anyway even if he wasn't sick.

Rattrap shuffled down the hall, feeling like an old mech. He passed by Optimus's quarters on the way to the command center, briefly noticing that the door was open. He took a cursory glance inside as he walked on by. Wait, what? Rattrap thought as he came to stop and turned back around. He silently moved towards the unit and peeked through threshold. Optimus and Dinobot were standing in the middle of the room and… they were pretty close together. Closer than what was appropriate for a commander and his soldier. Rattrap could feel his facial plates twitch at the sight. Dinobot was standing at parade rest, his optics carefully avoiding Optimus's as their commander stared up at him, a knowing smirk across his face. They weren't really doing anything suspicious, but it wasn't entirely innocent either. They were talking in low voices. Rattrap couldn't hear what they were saying but he saw Dinobot's optics flit toward a plant sitting on his desk. He wondered if it was significant.

Rattrap slapped his servo against his face and groaned as he left. This was just great. He couldn't tell if Optimus was naïve or stupid. Probably both. Did Optimus truly think Dinobot could become a Maximal? You couldn't change programming. You could build a shell program, hide the signal, change the activation codes, but in the end a Pred was still a Pred. Those lines of code pushing them to kill, to dominate, to fight would continue to run through their neural circuits. Through Dinobot's neural circuits. This was Optimus's first time out in the field facing off with a Predacon army. He didn't know. He still thought of them as people. Rattrap shook his head. He was going to get them all killed.

Rattrap knew. He'd seen firsthand the depravity of war and how far the Predacons were willing to go. What they forced the Maximals to do in order to ensure the peace. Maximals weren't designed the same way Preds were; their natural inclination wasn't to kill. Protoform X, Corsicon… all of that happened because the Preds gave them no other option. The Maximals were the good guys.

No matter how many times Dinobot fought beside them or helped them weather the bad times or traded friendly insults with him he was still a Predacon. Rattrap knew that one day he would betray them. He couldn't forget that. He couldn't be lulled into a false sense of security like Optimus.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rattrap wakes with a sharp intake. It was that dream again. How long had it been since he last had that dream? He isn't sure, but it was before Dinobot's death. He knows because the only thing he had been able to dream since that night was Dinobot lying on his back as the valley burned around them. Rattrap runs a servo over his face and groans, still shaking at the memory. This time it was worse than before.

The dream changed. It had never done that before. It had always been the same. Always. But this time when Rattrap entered that hut and saw that Pred coming out of the tank his servo hadn't been red, but blue. And his face… His face had been all sharp angles and pointed teeth…


	6. Chapter 6

Rattrap didn't know what to do. He was running out of options and fast. Sure, he and the Battle Kitten had gotten a nice shiny upgrade, but so did Megatron and his goons. Optimus was dead and Rhinox had hooked himself up to some machine doing Primus only knew what. On top of all that Dinobot had disappeared.

When he discovered the saurian was gone Rattrap's processor immediately jumped to the most obvious conclusion: Dinobot had betrayed them and gone back to Megatron. It made sense. The Maximals were crippled; it wouldn't take much for Megatron to defeat them now once and for all and no Pred wants to be on the losing side. Rattrap worried that with Optimus dead there was nothing left to keep Dinobot here with them.

Yet every time that line of code whispered through his processor Rattrap shied away from it. He didn't want to admit that Dinobot was a traitor even if it was the only logical conclusion. They had been through so much together. They weren't friends – Rattrap could never admit to being friends with the slagging saurian – but they were… something. What he wasn't sure.

Then the lift was rising and Dinobot was standing there in the command center. All dark thoughts were immediately banished; Rattrap had never been so happy to see the stupid Pred in his life.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rattrap tucked his arms under his head and huffed out a sigh as Rhinox continued to scan his internals. "I don't know why we hafta do this. I feel fine!"

"Uh huh," Rhinox grumbled out as he bent over his readings, clearly not believing a word that came out of the rat's vocalizer.

The strange thing about it was that he really did feel fine. All the exhaustion and the pain that he had felt for the past few lunar cycles had disappeared. He had felt oddly free. There had even been whole cycles where he had forgotten that he was infected with the Creep.

"I don't believe it," Rhinox breathed as he studied the results on the screen.

"What?" Rattrap demanded, his vocalizer going up a few octaves. Not that he would admit to that. "What is it? Has it gotten worse?" Primus, was this reprieve merely the calm before the storm? Was this the end?

Rhinox slowly shook his head, his optics still riveted to the lines of code and symbols. "No, it's gone. It's just gone. Your entire system has been wiped clean of the Creeper virus."

Rattrap sat up with a jerk, not quite believing what his audios were hearing. "What? How is that even possible?"

"It must have been the quantum surge," Rhinox murmured. "Your new Transmetal structure completely cured you of the Creeper."

Rattrap sucked in a deep intake. Cured. He was going to live. Rattrap wasn't a religious mech, but as he slid off the scanner he couldn't help but turn his thoughts towards Primus. Was this His doing? In the back of his processor he had always figured that he would come to a messy end. With the life he lived, what else could he expect? If it wasn't going to be the Creep then it was a jealous lover or a bookie looking for credits or a violent Pred out for fluid. But that didn't happen. He was still here. He was fine. He was more than fine. He had a new name, a new face, a new purpose. He had friends.

Rattrap entered the command center and let his optics linger on the lone figure hunched over the holographic maps. Dinobot growled softly under his intakes as he probed the areas surrounding the Darksyde for a strategic vantage point.

Friends.

Primus, he was friends with a Predacon. The realization packed a punch and Rattrap felt himself stagger back at the concept. One half of his processor was screaming at him, berating him on his stupidity. It brought up the rebellion, painted the pictures that had been burned into his CPU, things he could never forget.

But the other half of his processor accepted it. Welcomed it, even. At that moment, watching the surly saurian debate with himself in his typical overly dramatic fashion, Dinobot was no longer a Predacon or an enemy or even a friend. To Rattrap, he was something far more important.

He was Redemption. He was Forgiveness.

Maybe there was a reason behind the cure, a reason that went deeper than simple quantum surges and Transmetal upgrades.

Rattrap grinned as he walked over to the Pred and slapped him on the arm. "What's wrong there, Chopperface? Your old friends changed the locks on ya?"

Dinobot lifted his arm as though he was going to strike the rat, but dropped it soon enough. Rattrap's grin grew wider; the violence and hatred… it was all for show. He could live with that. "Rattrap, I'm glad you're here," Optimus announced as he entered the command center. "Dinobot is leading an expedition. I want you and Silverbolt to go with him."

For once Rattrap doesn't complain. He didn't complain about Chopperface. He didn't complain about Sir Drools-a-Lot. He didn't even complain about the mission. For the first time in a long, long time Rattrap felt something that could almost be described as content.

And then Dinobot had to go screw it all up.

Rattrap had noticed how Dinobot was distancing himself from the rest of the crew, even from Optimus. He hadn't been the same since the quantum surge and their fearless leader's heroic sacrifice. Rattrap just figured that despite any protest from the lizard Optimus's death had really affected him. He sometimes saw the confused, lingering glances from Optimus and Dinobot's cold avoidance, the awkward realization that Dinobot was spending more and more time alone away from everyone else. That little part of his processor spoke up again; it just couldn't let go of the fact that Dinobot was a Predacon and whispered its dire warnings, but Rattrap ignored them. Dinobot had proven himself to Rattrap, the least Rattrap could do was put his trust in him. He was an idiot. They all were.

Rattrap had looked up and seen the hesitation in Dinobot's optics when Megatron gave him the order to kill. Rattrap couldn't help but wonder if he had had that same look in his own optics all those megacycles ago on Corsicon. But then Dinobot pulled back and dropped his arm. He couldn't do it.

Rattrap had laughed it off then. Even gave the stupid lizard a ride. What he had really wanted to do was yell and scream, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it at that moment. He would give too much away. He didn't want Dinobot to know just how much he had trusted him.

He should have never trusted that slagging Pred.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rattrap peers through the forest, scanning through the dark trees in search of that skeletal, ghostly mirage of the bot he once called a friend.

 

Packer walks through the jungle, carefully avoiding the diseased Predacon soldiers rusting on the wet, black ground.

 

A flash of white, a demonic apparition. Rattrap scurries in pursuit. He has only one chance, just one, to make everything right.

 

There's a building up ahead – a broken down hut – and Packer advances inside, constantly on the lookout for a threat. There is a row of CR tanks. Slowly a servo breaks through the silvery liquid and clasps the edge of the tank. It is painted red. It is painted blue. The servo sports wrist-mounted missiles. No, the servo has claws.

 

Rattrap launches the trap. The clone is tangled up, pinned to the tree. It snarls fiercely and charges up its optic laser. Rattrap easily dodges the red beam and grasps hold of its chest plate, peeling it open. He can see the surprise in its lone optic. Unthinkable that a Maximal could commit such a violation. It's the only way- a mantra that Rattrap repeats out loud. Besides, he never was a very good Maximal. Rattrap pulls out the datatracks that Dinobot had left behind, that the rat had stolen, and plugs it into the clone's chest cavity. He starts the download.

 

The servo pulls the lone mech halfway out of the tank. He lies there, cycling hard. The Predacon looks Packer in the optics and holds out his servo- a plea for help. Packer stands there, unsure of what he should do. Finally, he clicks on his comm. link. "Uh, Commander?" He asks. "I've got a live one here." There's a pause and all Packer can hear is static. Then…

"You have your orders."

 

The clone struggles as Dinobot's memories – the real Dinobot's – are downloaded into its hard drive. Rattrap had never much believed in Primus, but he sends out a prayer then. Suddenly the clone goes slack as the computer intones the download's success. It's so still... it almost looks dead. Rattrap removes the datatracks, waiting for something – anything – but the clone remains motionless. Finally, his optic blinks back on - a splash of red against a white canvas - as he slowly lifts his head to look at the Maximal.

"Chopperface?"

 

Packer nods at the command. He is committed to winning the war. The Predacons must be stopped. Packer looks at the figure in the tank, grasping helplessly at the saboteur in front of him. The Pred… he was just a kid. What was he doing in this Primus-forsaken place? Packer cocks his gun and aims. The Pred mouths something – a plea, an absolution – and Packer pulls the trigger. He shoots three times, right in the spark chamber. The kid slumps over the side, dead.

Packer pulls out the body and gets it ready for the cleanup crew. Ready to be recycled. Soon it will almost be like the Pred never even existed. There will be no record, no marker, no funeral. This never happened. Packer moves on. He has to keep moving. He has a job to do.

 

The clone suddenly slashes through its bindings with those razor sharp claws. It growls fiercely at the Maximal, its laser already charging up. Rattrap can see there's no recognition in its optic; it doesn't know him. To it, Rattrap is just the enemy. It doesn't even know what it means to have a friend. The rat transforms into his vehicle mode and flees before the enraged Predacon can get a shot in. It was a stupid idea anyway. Dinobot is dead.

Rattrap moves on.

Fin


End file.
